From Find Me: A Novel by André Aciman. Copyright © 2019 by the author and reprinted by
permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
I was just finishing a master class devoted to the last movement of Beethoven’s D minor sonata
when suddenly, at the door, there he was, standing with his hands in the pockets of his blue
blazer, looking a touch gawky for such an elegant man, and yet not in the slightest bit
uncomfortable.
He held the door for the six or seven who were starting to leave the hall, and seeing they were
filing out without holding the door or thanking him, he smiled broadly at them, finally thanking
them for the tip. I must have been beaming. What a lovely way to surprise someone.
“You’re not displeased then?”
I shook my head. Like you needed to ask.
“What were you planning after class?”
“I usually have coffee or a juice some-
where.”
“Mind if I join?”
“Mind if I join?” I mimicked.
I took him to my favorite café where I go after teaching and where sometimes a colleague or a
student joins me as we sit and watch people race along the sidewalks at this time of day—people
on last-minute errands, others looking to put off heading home and shutting their door to the
world, and then some just rushing from one corner of their lives to another. The tables around us
were all filled with people, and for some reason that I’ve never been able to define, I like when
everyone seems bunched together, almost elbow to elbow with strangers. “Are you really not
displeased I came then?” he asked again. I smiled and shook my head. I told him I was still not
recovered from the surprise.
“Good surprise, then?”
“Very good surprise.”
“If I didn’t find you at the conservatory,” he said, “I was going to try every luxury hotel with a
piano bar. Very simple.”
“It would have taken you a long time.”
“I gave myself 40 days and 40 nights, and then I would have tried the conservatory. Instead I
tried the conservatory first.”
“But weren’t we planning on meeting this coming Sunday?”
“I wasn’t too sure.”
That I didn’t object or say anything to gainsay his assumption must have confirmed his suspicion.
Indeed, our silence regarding next Sunday’s concert made us smile uneasily. “I have wonderful
memories of last Sunday,” I ended up saying. “So do I,” he replied.
“Who was the lovely pianist with whom you were playing?” he asked.
“She’s a very talented third-year student from Thailand, very, very gifted.”
“The way you looked at each other while playing clearly suggests there is more than just
teacher-pupil affinity between you.”
“Yes, she came all the way here to study with me.” I could tell where he was leading and shook
my head with mock reproof at the insinuation.
“And may I ask what you’re doing later?”
Bold, I thought.
“You mean tonight? Nothing.”
“Doesn’t someone like you have a friend, a partner, someone special?”
“Someone like me?” Were we really going to repeat last Sunday’s conversation?
“I meant young, sparkling, clearly fascinating, to say nothing of very handsome.”
“There is no one,” I said, then looked away.
Was I really trying to cut him off? Or was I enjoying this without wanting to show it?
“You don’t take compliments well, do you?”
I looked at him and shook my head again, but without humor this time.
“So no one, no one?” he finally asked.
“Nobody.”
“Not even the occasional…?”
“I don’t do the occasional.”
“Never?” he asked, almost baffled.
“Never.”
But I could hear my tone stiffen. He was trying to be playful, prodding, borderline flirtatious, and
here I was coming off as mirthless, dour, and, worst of all, self-righteous.
“But there must have been someone special?”
“There was.”
“Why did it end.”
“We were friends, then we were lovers, then she split. But we stayed friends.”
“Was there ever a he in your life?”
“Yes.”
“How did it end?”
“He got married.”
“Ah, the marriage canard!”
Two men walking through a cobblestone street with a bike
A Fine Romance
“Let’s not say goodbye, not just yet.” ILLUSTRATIONS BY JENNY KROIK.
“I thought so too at the time. But they’ve been together for years now. They were together
before he started with me.”
At first, he didn’t say anything but he seemed to question the whole setup. “Did the two of you
remain friends?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted him to ask, yet I loved being asked.
“We haven’t spoken in ages, and I don’t know that we’re friends, though I’m sure we will
always be. He’s always read me extremely well, and I have a feeling that he suspects that if I
never write it’s not because I don’t care but because a part of me still does and always will, just
as I know he still cares, which is why he too never writes. And knowing this is good enough for
me.”
“Even though he’s the one who got married?”
“Even though he’s the one who got married,” I echoed. “And besides,” I added, as though it
dispelled any ambiguity, “he teaches in the U.S., and I’m here in Paris—kind of settles it, doesn
’t it? Unseen but always there.”
“Doesn’t settle it at all, if you want to know. Why haven’t you gone after him, even if he is
married? Why give up so easily?”
The near-critical tone in his voice was hard to miss. Why was he reproaching me? Was he not
interested then?
“Besides, how long ago was it?” he asked.
I knew my answer would leave him totally stumped. “Fifteen years.”
Suddenly, he stopped asking and went silent. As I expected, he had not figured that so many
years could go by and still leave me attached to someone who had become an invisible presence.
“It belongs to the past,” I said, trying to make amends.
“Nothing belongs to the past.” But then he right away asked: “You still think of him, don’t
you?”
I nodded because I did not want to say yes.
“Do you miss him?”
“When I am alone—sometimes, yes. But it doesn’t intrude, doesn’t make me sad. I can go
entire weeks without thinking of him. Sometimes I want to tell him things, but then I put it off,
and even telling myself that I’m putting it off gives me some pleasure, though we may never
speak. He taught me everything. My father said there were no taboos in bed; my lover helped me
cast them off. He was my first.”
Michel shook his head with a confiding smile that reassured me. “How many after him?” he
asked.
“Not many. All short-lived. Men and women.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because I never really let go or lose myself with others. After an instant of passion, I
always fall back to being the autonomous me.”
He took a last sip of his coffee.
“At some point in your life you will need to call him. The moment will come. It always does. But
perhaps I shouldn’t be saying all this.”
“Why?”
“Oh, you know why.”
I liked what he’d just said, but it left us both silent.
“The autonomous you, then,” he finally said, obviously eliding what had just transpired between
us that very second. “Difficult, aren’t you?”
“As I expected, he had not figured that so many years could go by and still leave me attached to
someone who had become an invisible presence.”
“My father used to say so as well, because I could never decide on anything, what to do in life,
where to live, what to study, whom to love. Stick to music he said. Sooner or later, the rest would
come. He started his career at the age of 32—so I still have some time, though not much, if I’m
to time myself to his clock. We’ve been exceptionally close, ever since I was a baby. He was a
philologist and writing his dissertation at home while my mother was a therapist in a hospital, so
he was the one in charge of diapers and all the rest. We had help but I was always with him. He’
s the one who taught me to love music—ironically, the very same piece I was teaching when you
walked in this afternoon. When I teach it I still hear his voice.”
“My father too taught me music. I was just a bad student.”
I liked this sudden convergence of coincidences though I was reluctant to make too much of it
either. He kept staring at me without saying anything. But then he said something that caught me
off guard once again: “You are so handsome.” It had come totally unprompted, so that rather
than react to his words, I found myself trying to change the subject, except that in doing so I
heard myself mutter something more unprompted yet. “You make me nervous.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t really know what you’re after, or where you’d want
me to stop and not go further.”
“Should be very clear by now. If anything I’m the one who should be nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m probably just a whim for you, or maybe a few rungs higher than an occasional.”
I scoffed at this.
“And by the way”—I hesitated before saying it but felt impelled to say it—“I’m not very good
at beginnings.”
He chuckled. “Was this thrown in for my benefit?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, but to come back to what I was saying: You are unbelievably handsome. And the problem
is either that you know it and are aware of its power over others or that you need to pretend not
to—which makes you not just difficult to decipher but, for someone like me, dangerous.”
All I did was nod listlessly. I didn’t want him to feel that what he’d just told me was misplaced.
So I stared at him, smiled, and in another setting would have touched his eyelids before kissing
them both.
As it got darker, the lights of our café and of the adjoining one were lit. They cast a luminous,
unsteady glow on his features, and for the first time, I was aware of his lips, his forehead, and his
eyes. He’s the handsome one, I thought. I should have said so, and the moment was ripe for it.
But I kept quiet. I did not want to echo his words; it would have sounded like a strained and
contrived attempt to establish parity between us. But I did love his eyes. And he was still staring at
me.
“You remind me of my son,” he finally said.
“Do we look alike?”
“No, but you’re the same age. He too loved classical music. So I used to take him to the Sunday
evening concerts, the way my father had so often done with me.”
“Do you still go together?”
“No. He lives in Sweden, mostly.”
“But the two of you are close?”
“I wish. My divorce with his mother ruined things between us, though I’m sure she did nothing
to hurt our relationship. But he knew about me of course and, I suppose, never forgave me. Or he
used it as an excuse to turn against me, which he’d been wanting to do since his early 20s, God
knows why.”
“How did they find out?”
“She did first. One early evening she walked in and found me listening to slow jazz and nursing a
drink. I was alone and just by watching me and the look on my face she knew right away that I
was in love. Classic feminine intuition! She put down her handbag by the coffee table, sat next to
me on the sofa, and even reached out and had a sip of my drink: ‘Is she someone I know?’ she
asked after a long, long silence. I knew exactly what she meant and there was no point denying it.
‘It’s not a she,’ I replied. ‘Ah,’ she said. I still remember the last remnants of sunlight on the
carpet and against the furniture, the smoky smell of my whiskey, and the cat lying next to me.
Sunlight, when I see it in my living room, still reminds me of that conversation. ‘So it’s worse
than I thought,’ she said. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because against a woman I still stand a chance,
but against who you are, there’s nothing I can do. I cannot change you.’ Thus ended almost 20
years of marriage. My son was bound to find out soon enough, and he did.”
“How?”
“I told him. I was under the illusion that he’d understand. He didn’t.”
“I’m sorry” was all I could say.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t regret the turn in my life. But I do regret losing him. He
never calls when he is in Paris, seldom even writes, and doesn’t pick up when I call.”
He looked at his watch. Was it time to go already?
“So it’s not a mistake that I tracked you down?” he asked for the third time, perhaps because
he loved hearing me say that it absolutely wasn’t, which I enjoyed telling him.
“Not a mistake.”
“And you weren’t upset with me about the other evening?” he asked.
I knew exactly what he was referring to.
“Maybe I was—a bit.”
He smiled. I could tell he was eager to leave the café, so I moved closer to him, my shoulder
touching his. Which is when he put his arm around me and drew me to him, almost urging me to
rest my head on his shoulder. I didn’t know whether this was meant to reassure me or simply
humor a young man who had opened up and spoken some touching words to an older man.
Perhaps it was the prelude to a goodbye hug. So, fearing the unavoidable leave-taking, I blurted
out “I’m not doing anything tonight.”
“Yes, I know. You told me.”
But he must have sensed that I was nervous or that his tone was off.
“You are an amazing and—” He didn’t finish his sentence.
He was about to pay but I stopped his hand. Then as I held it I stared at it.
“What are you doing?” he asked almost reproachfully.
“Paying.”
“No, you were staring at my hand.”
“I wasn’t,” I protested. But I had stared at his hand.
“It’s called age,” he said. Then a moment later. “Haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
He bit his lower lip but then right away released it. He was waiting for my answer.
And then because there was nothing I could think of saying to him but still felt the need to say
something, anything, “Let’s not say goodbye, not just yet.”
But I realized that this could easily be viewed as a request to extend our time together by a short
while in the café, so I decided to opt for something bolder. “Don’t let me go home tonight,
Michel,” I said. I know I blushed saying this, and was already scrambling for ways to apologize
and take back my words when he came to my rescue.
“I was struggling to ask the very same thing but, once again, you beat me to it. The truth is,” he
went on, “I don’t do this frequently. Actually, I haven’t done this in a very, very long time.”
“This?” I said, with a slight jeer in my voice.
“This.”
We left shortly after. We must have walked with my bike a good 20 or 30 minutes to his home. He
offered to take a taxi. I said no, that I preferred to walk; besides, the bike was not the easiest
thing to fold, and taxi drivers always complained. “I love your bike. I love that you have such a
bike.” Then, catching himself, “I’m speaking nonsense, aren’t I?” We were walking side by
side with hardly a foot distance between us and our hands kept grazing. Then I reached for his
and held it for a few moments. This would break the ice, I thought. But he kept quiet. A few more
paces on the cobble street, and I let go of his hand.
“I do love this,” I said.
“This?” he teased. “Meaning the-Brassai effect?” he asked.
“No, me and you. It’s what we should have done two nights ago.”
“I was aware of his lips, his forehead, and his eyes. He’s the handsome one, I thought.
I should have said so, and the moment was ripe for it. But I kept quiet.”
He looked down at the sidewalk, smiling. Was I perhaps rushing things? I liked how our walk
tonight was a repeat of the other evening. The crowd and the singing on the bridge, the glinting
slate cobbles, the bike with its strapped bag I would eventually lock to a pole, and his passing
comment about wishing to buy one just like it.
What never ceased to amaze me and cast a halo around our evening was that ever since we’d
met, we’d been thinking along the same lines, and when we feared we weren’t or felt we were
wrong-footing each other, it was simply because we had learned not to trust that anyone could
possibly think and behave the way we did, which is why I was so diffident with him and mistrusted
every impulse in me and couldn’t be happier when I saw how easily we’d shed some of our
screens. How wonderful to have finally said exactly what was on my mind ever since last Sunday:
Don’t let me go home tonight. How wonderful that he’d seen through my blushing on Sunday
night and made me want to admit I’d blushed, only then to concede that he himself had
blushed as well. Could two people who’d basically spent less than four hours together still have
so few secrets from each other? I wondered what was the guilty secret I held in my vault of craven
falsehoods.
“I lied about the occasionals,” I said.
“I figured as much,” he replied, almost discounting the struggle behind my avowal.
When we finally stepped into one of those tight, small Parisian elevators with no space between
us, “Now will you hold me?” I asked. He shut the slim elevator doors and pressed the button to
his floor. I heard the loud clank of the engine and the strain as the elevator began its ascent,
when suddenly he didn’t just hold me but cupped my face in both his hands and kissed me deep
on the mouth. I shut my eyes and kissed him back. I’d been waiting for this for such a long time.
All I remember hearing was the sound of the very old elevator grinding and staggering its way up
to his floor as I kept hoping the sound would never end and the elevator never stop.
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